


As Taught by Carol Aird (supplemental)

by writingfanatic



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: As Taught by Carol Aird, F/F, deleted/bonus scenes, supplemental material
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-09-09 02:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8872753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanatic/pseuds/writingfanatic
Summary: Supplemental material to As Taught by Carol Aird, such as scenes from C&T's earlier years to deleted scenes from main story-line.





	1. First Class

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nycdada](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nycdada/gifts).



> Hey, everyone! Chapter 10 is taking longer than usual, so to make up for it, I'm uploading a scene I started a while ago for planning and finished today. I like writing bonus scenes as much as the main story, so I plan to add more scenes along with chapters to the main. As the summary says, they'll be anything from Therese's college days to deleted scenes that don't fit with ATbCA. 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

_CW 2:40-4:10 VAC 120_

Therese glanced at her note for the tenth time, deciphering her own rushed handwriting to make sure that yes, for the tenth time, Therese, you have the right class in the right room. See? There’s even people here to wait with you.

Three to be exact, sitting on different sides of the table, wrapped in the worlds of their phones. Therese set her backpack near the center, her back to the windows, and circumspected the room as she wondered, why would a creative writing class be held in the arts building? There were two classrooms in Swannanoa, yet for some reason writing classes were always held in this building. Unless she overlooked the correct room.

“This is Intermediate Creative Writing, right?” she asked the woman seated across from her. 

“With Carol? Yeah,” the woman replied, glancing up from her phone. She resumed her texting, but continued to speak with a half-interested, nasal tone that grated Therese’s ears. “I’m so excited. You had her last semester?” Therese shook her head. She had never even taken a creative writing course before she came to college. “Omigod, you’ll love her. I had her last semester. She’s great.”

“What about her is so great?” Therese asked with curiosity.

The woman glanced up at her, then out the window, as if she were expecting someone. Her head dipped back to her phone. “She’s super sweet. I mean, have you even seen her before?” The woman’s eyes were now fixed on Therese.

“I don’t even know what she looks like.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “You’ve never—ohmigod, it’s so funny. She always—nevermind, I’ll let you see it. You’ll see her when she comes in. I fucking love her. I was so glad to get into this class. I mean, I really fucking love her.”

Therese didn’t ask any more questions, hoping the woman’s interest would shift solely to her phone. Her teeth grinded when her classmate spoke up again, “I’m Britt, by the way. Short for Brittany, but everyone calls me Britt.”

“Therese.”

“Is that French?”

“It’s a French pronunciation.” She glanced at new faces around her, waiting for someone else to take over the conversation. Instead, Britt looked up, her eyes and mouth widening with a grin. Whoever she was waiting for set their materials in the empty place beside Therese, and all eyes turned to the newcomer. 

Some of the students, including Therese, had to choke back laughter from the attire of the woman. She wore a royal purple blouse on top of an orange undershirt, forest green slacks, and red converse sneakers. To top it all off, she sported a beaded necklace the color of sunflower petals. 

How could someone so attractive wear something so ridiculous, Therese wondered. She studied the person with more attention. She looked older than some of the others, possibly a graduate student in her early to mid-thirties, with wavy blonde hair and an athletic build. There were a few wrinkles around the corners of her grey eyes, barely noticeable unless she smiled, which Therese supposed was often. Her walk possessed an excited spring, yet she held herself with an air languid and feline. Therese found herself interested in this strange classmate, and hoped for opportunities to know her better. 

“Hello, everyone,” the new person spoke in a confident tone that held everyone’s attention. Therese straightened, her smiling melting off her face in horror as she realized that the mysterious classmate wasn’t a classmate at all, but Professor Aird herself. She gulped; she hated sitting next to professors. It was the quickest way to ensure that you always get caught not paying attention. 

“Welcome to Creative Writing. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Carol Aird. It’s fine to call me Carol; I’ve never been one for formalities.” She exhaled, grinning at everyone around her. “So I know some of you—I know Britt, of course, and Mary. Good to see you, Jamie. But there are some faces I don’t know.” Her eyes met Therese’s. The student’s throat worked itself for the first introduction as she felt sure she would be called on. 

Yet, Carol surprised her. “We’ll start from my left. I love that direction. Sorry,” she added, her fingers lightly touching Therese’s arm. Therese muttered a reply so faint even she didn’t hear it. “So, what I’d like is for you to say your name, of course, your year, and one off-the-wall fact about you, something about you that doesn’t normally come up in conversation. The stranger, the better.”

She nudged the person beside her to begin. The student cleared her throat and began, “I’m Jesse, a senior, and I…know what a giraffe’s tongue feels like.” The class laughed. “It’s the slimiest shit, I swear.”

Next one was Alex, junior, who once re-created a miniature version of her house in Legos. A few more with not-so-strange facts. Britt was a senior who almost considered being a Classics major because Professor Sparrow was “hot.”

Carol’s laugh sounded loudest over the others. “She is an attractive woman,” she said, nodding with agreement at Britt. 

Therese sunk her seat. She was two students away from her turn and she couldn’t think of any strange fact about her. Anything her mind offered for the class was ordinary: she was an Art Studio major because her father painted, she liked Moody food well enough, and she considered living in NEFA. 

“Jamie. Senior. I really love to play the banjulele. Right now, I’m composing my own song on it.” There were a few gasps of awe and questions of what kind. 

“What about you?” An elbow nudged Therese, snapping her from her thoughts. To her horror, she realized it was her turn. 

“Oh! I’m…Therese. Belivet. I’m a sophomore. And…uh…I don’t really think there’s any strange fact about me.”

“No? Your last name sounds strange. What origin is it?”

“Czech. Originally.”

“It’s still original.” Therese glanced over to see Carol grinning at her. Not the amused, laughing-at-you sort of smile, but a kinder, relaxing grin that made Therese loosen up. Her turn was over, anyway, and the embarrassment over.

“Well, as I said,” Carol began, “I’m Carol Aird, Carol to all of you. This is my first year, second semester teaching here, and a strange fact that does not come up in conversations is that if I could be any animal, I would be a mantis shrimp. Seven to twelve color receptors (depending on your source) in its eyes. I get excited when I think of seeing the world in more colors.”

“They also have a power punch,” Therese remarked. 

“True, but I’m far more interested in the colors than the strength. I mean, look at me, do I not look like someone in love with the rainbow?” Carol flashed her another grin as the class laughed around them, and this time, Therese returned her own shy smile. “Let’s go ahead and get started.”

For the next fifteen minutes, Carol explained the procedure of the class. Everyone would deliver a poem or short story to the class box in Swannanoa every Friday at noon. The staff would print a packet for everyone which could be picked up over the weekend and read by Tuesday when class would workshop. Thursdays were a five minute free-write, finishing up any remaining workshops, and writing exercises. Participation grades were based on contributing in class and remembering to submit weekly. Office hours were Monday and Wednesday from twelve to two-thirty, and Friday from eleven to one. And, Carol added, students were welcome to have a coffee from the Keurig in her office. 

Therese felt the class to be easy enough; a simple elective to check off her course list. She wasn’t skilled with words, so her poems and stories were terrible at best, but what would it matter in the end? How many of these people would remember her writing next year? Carol did not seem the kind to judge her for being terrible with words. As for workshopping, she could critique a single word choice and get a full participation grade. A smile crossed the student’s face. This was the perfect class to fail and still pass. 

At the end of her speech, Carol instructed everyone to take out a piece of paper. “Nothing like jumping right into work. We’re going to do a little writing exercise based off a pet peeve of mine. Can any of you remember the last book you read where most of dialogue tags were ‘said’?” A few students piped up with an answer. “Call me elitist, but as wide and various as English is, I prefer my dialogue tags to…reflect that really. If the character has an emotion, highlight that. Say ‘huffed’ or ‘snarled’ or even ‘giggled.’ People can giggle and talk at the same time. So my exercise is write down as many synonyms as you can. I’ll give you two minutes.”

It took Therese a second or two to begin. While she loved to read, she had never paid much attention to the word choices. She thought of ordinary verbs and began with those.

yelled  
barked  
shouted  
screamed  
spoke  
cried  
commented  
huffed  
snarled  
giggled  
laughed  
snapped

“Time!” Carol announced. “Let’s go around the room and call out what we have, and if one has been mentioned, cross it off your list. I want to see if we all came up with at least one different tag. Therese, you begin this time.”

Therese read her list. Carol nodded with approval at the second one, then sighed with disappointment when she read the ones Carol had used as an example, making it clear that she hoped Therese would think of more. But she didn’t say anything about it, and moved on to the next person. Jamie had several more than Therese’s entire list, and the next person had no new terms to offer. By the time it got back to Carol, only one was left on her list.

“Drawled,” Carol read. “I’m glad we were able to come up with quite a few. I don’t have a problem so much with the word ‘said,’ just when it’s used to excess. All these words we have that convey emotion, action, style of conversation; nothing disappoints me more than when a writer relies on ‘said,’ which sounds so bland in the middle of, say, an argument, or flirting. 

“Next part of this assignment is to write a dialogue between two people without using the word said. Use any of the words we called out. Take ten minutes.”

Arguments seemed easy to convey, Therese thought. She pondered a topic of debate between her characters and chose to write about a break-up. Screamed, yelled, hollered, roared, barked, fussed…a screaming match. 

“Time,” Carol called. “Let’s hear a few. And I want you to read it twice: the first time only using said, and the second time as you wrote. I want you to hear the difference in the action. Who wants to start?”

A few people read theirs. One was a legal debate that sounded bland the first time, then like something pretending to be _Twelve Angry Men_ in Therese’s opinion. Another was a flirtation scene, followed by an argument similar to what Therese wrote. She avoided volunteering to read; there would be plenty of Tuesdays ahead for that.

“I can’t tell you how to write, of course,” Carol taught. “Any lesson you learn in here will ultimately be a suggestion for you to help strengthen your writing. But I do think it’s the little adjustments like various dialogue tags or, as we will learn later on this semester, cutting down on adverbs, that make the most rewarding change in our stories.

“Now this next assignment will be your homework, since we won’t start submissions until next week. What I want you to do is grab a dictionary and pick out a word you’ve never seen before. Take that word and alter one letter. Just one. Alter one word and write your own definition for this word. This will be a weekly assignment so that by the end of the semester, we’ll have our own class dictionary. The sillier, the better! See you on Tuesday.”

Easy homework, Therese quietly cheered. She stood and walked out through the glass doors, Carol right behind her. She planned on going straight to Moody, yet Carol came up beside her, and decided to converse with the student.

“So your family is Czech?” Carol inquired.

“On my father’s side. Mom’s is more German and Dutch.”

“I see. And is your major Creative Writing?”

“No, I’m an Art Studio major. I’m taking this class because I wanted to see if I was any good at writing.” This wasn’t the truth, but Therese felt it unwise, almost insulting, to tell a professor you were only in her class for the easy credit. Then again, she supposed, it might be as insulting doing it, whether you admit it or not. She decided that as long as she passed, it wouldn’t matter that much in the end.

“Why did you decide on art?”

“I like being able to visually represent the world the way I see it. I’m happiest when I’m creating something. And my father painted; he taught me how to do it and taught me to love it.”

Carol side-eyed at her, making Therese feel slightly judged. True, her tone wasn’t enthused and more nonchalant, but that didn’t mean she was lying.

“It’s good that you know what you like and can pursue it.”

“Yeah. Definitely didn’t want to be a Classics Major because the professor is hot.” Therese laughed, hoping Carol would find her reference to Britt as funny.

“Yeah, don’t do that. I’m not that hot after a while,” someone else spoke up. 

Both heads turned toward Turner where standing on the porch was a lean woman with bushy brown hair and a long, narrow face, wearing thick-framed glasses from behind which she peered at the two of them.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t—” Therese stammered. 

“She was referring to someone in our class who said that. We both found it funny,” Carol explained. “Thankfully, that person changed her mind about her choice of major.”

The woman laughed as she walked down the steps and joined the women. “Good. Never choose a major for any reason other than you love it.” She glanced at Therese. “I’m Professor Sparrow, by the way. I teach Classical Studies.”

They shook hands. Professor Sparrow turned to Carol. “Did you get my email about the book recommendation?”

“Yes. I was about to check the library for it. Where are you heading, Therese?”

“Oh, I was going to go to Moody. Dinner’s in about ten minutes.”

“All right, then I’ll see you on Tuesday. Take care.”

“See you. Good to meet you,” she added to Professor Sparrow. 

Both professors waved as they departed toward the library and Therese made her way to Moody, her stomach growling for dinner. She reflected briefly on the class and still believed it would be an easy pass. And she liked the professor well enough—Carol was eccentric, to be sure, yet exciting enough that the class certainly would not be dull. Therese smiled, and found herself eager for the next class.


	2. First Office Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This scene takes place two or three weeks after Carol and Therese's first class. 
> 
> I'm almost done with Chapter 15 in the main storyline. Just a little bit more to go, then editing, and it should be up within a day or two. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

Chapter 2: First Office Meeting

Her only purpose of going was the coffee. She admitted this was a terrible reason, scolded herself, and immediately walked toward Carol's office. Through the open doorway, she found Carol at her desk, back to the door, and wearing her brown, resin-rimmed reading glasses as she studied the latest workshop packet. Therese held up her knuckles, ready to knock, but paused. Seeing a professor just for their coffee machine was a rude and inconsiderate reason, she reminded herself, even if Carol did say she would offer a cup to anyone who came to see her. 

She almost turned, when Carol's head perked up and she looked toward the door.

"Therese!" she exclaimed, her voice higher than Therese thought necessary. "Good to see you. Come in, come in!" She marked her place in the packet, removed her glasses, then rotated her chair around so that Therese had her undivided attention, all before Therese had time to sit down. "What can I do for you?"

"Uh...I, um.... I wanted to ask you for writing advice." Therese had no interest in improving her writing, but it sounded like the best fake reason.

Eyebrows shot up with humor and surprise. "Okay! What particular advice do you need? Character? Setting? Word usage?"

"I'm not quite sure. I'm...struggling in general with my writing. I'm not the best at it."

"Well, it's not your preferred art form. You paint, right? It's a challenge to adjust from one visual medium to another. Do you plan on continuing writing afterward?" Therese shook her head. "Then why feel pressure to be 'the best' at writing, much less ‘good?’" Carol shrugged. "What is 'good' writing anyway?"

"Writing that doesn't make you squirm in your seat when you read it," Therese responded automatically, referring specifically to her own works. Whenever she had to read them in class, she winced from embarrassment at the weak, short sentences and bland, stiff dialogue. 

Carol chuckled, but replied, "What about horror fiction? Wouldn't squirming be a desired effect when the audience reads something gruesome?”

“But I’m not writing horror…”

Another shrug. “Touché, but the point I’m trying to make is that ‘good’ writing is entirely subjective. One may think Hemingway is the paragon of the English language and Twain is garbage. There are people who believe _Twilight_ and _Fifty Shades_ are the best stories ever and others think they belong in septic tanks. So essentially, ‘good’ writing isn’t a very solid goal. The best you can do is keep working and learn. Use what feels right. Throw away the rest.”

Therese nodded, unable to argue with her. She glanced at the Keurig machine, hoping Carol would offer. When it didn’t come, she replied, “I’m just tired of hating my own stuff when I read it. Everyone knows what they’re doing and I don’t.”

“Everyone else has practiced. Think, Therese, if this were a painting class, and everyone had to critique each other, don’t you think they’d feel their work is inferior to yours?”

Therese had never thought of it from that perspective, and said so. 

“See?” Carol replied with a wider grin. “It’s all right that writing’s not a strong skill of yours. Painting is, and that’s better. So don’t sweat about being ‘good.’ Just write and learn. Starting with this lesson, because you did ask for advice, after all. The main criticism I know you’ve been hearing in workshops is your poetry is a bit…”

“Purple,” Therese groaned. 

“Well…” Carol began, choosing her words carefully, “we just spoke about how you compare yourself negatively to the others and how you’d like to write like them. I think your writing projects that desire and maybe you try too hard to sound better. I wonder, Therese, where do you write from?”

“Um…my dorm room, sometimes the library—”

“No, no, I mean, do you write from experience? From observations? I guess the better way to ask the question is, what is your inspiration to write?”

This took a moment to answer, as Therese’s instinctual response was the weekly deadlines. Yet whenever she tried to come up with a better reason, she blanked. “I don’t think I write from anywhere. I pick a topic like birds, trees—anything, really—and go with it.”

“Hmmm…” Carol leaned back in her chair, her gaze assessing Therese. “Let me rephrase the question: where do you paint from?”

Therese straightened, and noticed the confidence in her voice when she responded, “I paint from fascination. Whenever I see something worth painting, I sometimes ask myself ‘Can I replicate it?’ Most of the time though, I ask, ‘What if I can show it like this?’”

“Like how?”

“More vibrant. Colorful.” She noted with humor the gleam in Carol’s eyes. “I’m inspired a lot by Vincent van Gogh, so I try to explore the usage of color like he does.”

“I love van Gogh!” Carol exclaimed. “So let’s explore your writing this way: what do you think is the similarity of painting and writing?”

Therese thought for a while. She glanced again at the Keurig, wishing she could have coffee to help her think. After a few minutes, she replied, “They’re both visual mediums?”

“How so?”

Therese shrugged with a hint of frustration. “You can see them.”

Carol closed her eyes and shook her head with a grin. “As an artist, you rely on color choice, correct?” Therese nodded. “As a writer, we rely on word choice. Like painting, we’re creating a scene and words are our colors. Would I also be correct in saying that each color carries with it its own definition? Sometimes a color carries this meaning in the overall presentation of the work?” Again, Therese nodded. “So is the same for writers. Each word carries a meaning that contributes to the whole story. 

“Let me give you an example: if someone paints a sunset, but only uses the standard colors out of paint tubes—no mixing or anything—how would that compare to another painting whose artist took special care in choosing the most appropriate colors, mixing and blending the right shades?”

“The first work would look very basic in comparison. Probably bland or gaudy.”

“Ah, now let’s look at writing. Do you remember that first exercise we did about dialogue tags? Remember how everyone read the first draft using only ‘said.’ Sometimes ‘said’ is all you need, but think about when people read the stories a second time. Ah, I see you’re getting it.”

Indeed, Therese felt like she understood. Her mouth formed an o and she slowly nodded.

“So,” Carol continued, “let’s recap. You paint from fascination and like to explore color choice. Writing is similar in the fact that we rely on word choice. So here’s an assignment, tailored just for you—I know, don’t you feel special? I want you to think about your writing like a canvas. Find something that fascinates you and write about it. Play with words and think of them as colors. And be easy with yourself about it; try not to be your own critic.” Carol leaned back in her chair with a sense of self-satisfaction. “I want to see the result in our next packet.”

“Okay,” Therese replied, mentally repeating the assignment to herself. “So it’s like telling what I see, not showing.”

“Oh, not quite.” Carol straightened up again, which told Therese she had walked right into another impromptu lesson. “One golden pieces of advice that many writers carry is ‘Show, don’t tell.’”

“Isn’t that difficult, since all words are, in a sense, telling?”

Carol laughed. “Technically speaking, I suppose they are when read aloud. But the point of the saying is that because words are like colors in a painting, you can frame a scene without necessarily saying outright what’s happening. Does that make sense? No? Well then, allow me to _show_ you, rather than _tell_ you.” 

With another self-satisfied smile, she stood and shuffled through some papers in her filing cabinet. When she found what she wanted, she sat back down, donned her reading glasses, and spoke, “Tell me which one you think presents a better painting. First the sentence, ‘He didn’t expect her answer and it angered him.’ Got that? Keep that in mind as I read this.” She cleared her throat and read.

_The answer struck him. He stood there, mute, as he processed each word. Slowly, he brought his hand to his face, both to still the twitching of his mouth, and because if he didn’t occupy his hand, he might not have resisted the urge to strike her across her stone face. He took a moment to breathe before he replied, his voice low and even to prevent himself from shouting._

“Which one carries the tone of the scene better?”

“The last one. Definitely.”

“Why?”

“Because the piece describes his actions, all of which show he’s angry.”

“So they don’t _tell_ outright that he’s angry. Once again, I see you understand. The first sentence is like that painting with standard tube colors—it’s bland, basic. The paragraph is like the second painting with the mixing and blending. It presents a more radiant, detailed scene. It builds the tone not by telling the audience ‘Hey, this dude’s pissed!’ but by showing them he’s pissed through the details of his actions.”

Therese nodded again, registering her professor’s words. They sat there for a moment in silence before Carol set aside the piece and removed her glasses. When she faced her student again, she said, “So, you know your assignment?”

“Write about something that fascinates me and play with words like I would colors.”

“And try showing, not telling,” Carol reminded her. “I want to see that in our next packet. I’ll be eager to read!”

With a smile, Therese stood. “Thank you for helping me.”

Carol brushed it off with a wave and a smile. “I’m a professor. It’s what I happily do. If you ever need more advice or just to have a conversation, I’ll be here.”

She returned to her packet as Therese walked through the door. She was halfway down the hallway when she heard her name called. Turning back around, she found Carol leaning back in her chair with a smirk and fingers interlaced on her lap. 

“Answer me one question. Did you really come for writing advice or for the coffee?”

Therese took a step back and stumbled with her response, “Oh, um, the advice, of course!”

Carol eyed her. “Sit down and I’ll make you a cup.”

She had barely stood up when Therese resumed her seat. Carol laughed and turned on the machine. “I saw you glancing at it when you came in and all through our talk.”

“Oh. That obvious, huh?”

“I want you to remember one thing about writers, Therese. We spend our time and money learning how to separate people from reality using our words. How we get those words is by watching others and learning. We pay attention and mimic. 

“Long story short: we are experts at bullshitting.”

Therese burst out laughing as Carol handed her the coffee. When she could breathe again, she asked, “Are you mad about it?”

“Do I seem mad?”

“Well, you just said you’re an expert at bullshit.”

It was Carol’s turn to laugh. “No, I’m not mad. Especially since I made you work for the coffee. Here you were expecting quick advice and a drink, and instead I gave you two lessons and an assignment,” she teased, with a poke to Therese’s knee. “Don’t you feel lucky?”

Therese playfully rolled her eyes and sipped her drink. She couldn’t lie though, she did feel lucky. Maybe coming to her professor’s office for coffee wasn’t a bad idea after all.


End file.
